


Dance with Me

by jeweniper



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dancing, Family, KyouHaba Week, M/M, Pets, basically jeweniper can't decide what to write so she writes everything, how to meander: a study, or something like it, why not somber fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeweniper/pseuds/jeweniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the course of their relationship, Yahaba has found that with Kyoutani, some things don't work right when said between them. When they're angry, sometimes they need to fight.</p><p>And when they're sad, sometimes they need to dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance with Me

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally wrote my first kyouhaba wk fic a month ago, and I didn't have that feeling of currency, so I wrote another! :'D I couldn't decide between writing for pets or family, so I wrote both. I also had the prompt "the urge to overcome melancholy by dancing" in mind. It was raining when I started this yesterday, so I wanted to capture that feeling in this. I'm not sure how everything comes across, though I'm pretty happy with it, so hopefully you enjoy it as well!

     Yahaba remembers the morning he told Kyoutani about the letter. He’d been preparing to leave for the animal hospital, giving his scrubs a last expressionless once-over in the mirror. Yahaba had leaned into the doorway, giving as concise a summary of the contents as possible (keeping chit-chat to a minimum in the morning, the way Kyoutani liked): his presence was requested at his parents’ home immediately. Why did they have to go, Kyoutani had grunted. His response, that the old beagle mix had died, and it was tradition to see furry family members off. Kyoutani had then folded into himself somewhat, it seemed, the way he did whenever a topic regarding the death of a pet cropped up. Yahaba briefly recalled noticing it the first time early in their relationship, the way his frown stiffened and the intensity of his gaze sank beneath something deep—he hadn’t brought it up then, and he wouldn’t bring it up now.

     Some things didn’t work right when said between them.  
  
     Yahaba didn’t mention the letter again, for no other reason than he didn’t have to. Like with most relationships, over the two years or so that they’d been dating, they had learned a lot about each other. For Kyoutani, that Yahaba hated the taste of old coffee. For Yahaba, that Kyoutani never forgot _anything_ , and to claim that he did so was a bald-faced lie (several missed high school volleyball practices came to mind). He had even confessed, through broken hisses of embarrassment once, that he hadn’t shown up on their first anniversary out of fear (not forgotten it in the overwhelming obligations of finals, as professed). So when the following Thursday rolls around, Yahaba is not surprised to see him sitting by the door next to a lumpy duffle bag, scowling into his tea mug despite a whole weekend off work the way only Kyoutani can.

     “All set?” Yahaba asks in greeting.

     “I don’t know sleeping beauty, are we?” He sneers from below, mid-morning sun grazing his loosely-crossed legs on the hardwood floor. The challenge has comebacks itching in the back of Yahaba’s throat.

     It would be a good morning.

     And it is, the way they pile into Yahaba’s MINI Cooper (the very same one Kyoutani REFUSED to enter that first time Yahaba went to pick him up back in college, bristling glares on par with the feral cats from his internship). He glimpses the light smile on his lips in the rearview mirror, sunlight tickling the hairs at the back of his neck as he backs out of the complex’s parking lot. Unexpectedly, mornings with the “mad dog” of Seijou are generally calm. He reaches down to increase the stereo volume without a thought.

     “Nooo Yahaba, not Michelle fucking Branch _again_ ,” Kyoutani groans from the passenger side, slouched deep into the faux leather (the way Yahaba has given up asking him not to do). Well, mornings are _generally_ calm.

     “What do you mean, she’s a classic!” He yelps.

     “She’s cheesy.”

     “But we’re driving to my parents’ right now. We are making our way downtown. We are homebound.” He deadpans, making no move to change the song in any way. And to his delight (because even now, getting Kyoutani to concede to him in little ways is a delight), he hears a long-suffering sigh from beside him and the protest of squeaky fabric as Kyoutani sinks further in his defeat to the non-negotiable rule of the road—driver chooses the music. The ride is long, with the sun’s slow trajectory over the sky punctuating the passage of time for Yahaba more than anything else. It first highlights the tips of Kyoutani’s bleached hair, then the hollows of his bright eyes. They bicker about where to stop for late lunch but eventually settle on ramen. Afterwards, the sun plays with the darkened warmth of Kyoutani’s smooth cheeks (untouched by the tell-tale wrinkles of a face that smiles often), and finally the ghost of stubble on his chin, before it disappears into shadow. At least that’s how Yahaba imagines it will go. It’s not like he stares at him on and off the whole time or anything.

       They are too exhausted to fool around once they reach the hotel for the night, and in the morning Yahaba pays for his music choices the previous day (“Seriously Kyoutani? What the hell is _metal electro_?”), but everything is fine for the last leg of the trip. However, upon pulling into the driveway, Yahaba notices that Kyoutani is crouched a little more into the steering wheel than before, that his grip is a little tighter, his frown a little more pronounced.

      “Hey,” he calls before unbuckling, “are you all right?” When silence greets him, he reaches a hand out to rest on Kyoutani’s knee.

      “…I’m all right,” he says, after a moment. It sounds clear and honest, so without another word they get out and head into the large house, squeezing between the many vehicles weighing down the narrow driveway. Like night and day, there is a whirlwind of activity just inside that was distinctly lacking in the yard. Yahaba glances back to his boyfriend, who appears smaller in front of the door, suddenly engulfed in greetings and young cousins shrieking and calls from the kitchen for assistance, but he can’t help going with the flow of his family.

     But this is not the first time Yahaba has brought Kyoutani home, so his mother attempts to pull him into the atmosphere, joking, “oh Kyoutani, thanks for tolerating him enough to let him drag you here again.” This is where Kyoutani answers with a quip of his own, and offers to help in the kitchen. This is how his mother welcomes foreign elements into the environment of the house. It’s simple.

      Instead, Yahaba sees discomfort contort itself over his scowling features and anxiety irritate him in the way he grips his bag like it owes him money. “He’s not that bad,” he mutters—which though flattering for Yahaba kills the mood, causing everyone to slowly find reasons to vacate the room. Kyoutani closes his eyes and spits, “fuck it.” He has never been good with people, for all of his intense focus on the dynamics between them. Yahaba is better at reading him now, and much more willing to work with a Kyoutani that shuts down than before (before he discovered that his spikes in emotion about Kyoutani do not actually stem from irritation), so he coaxes him into the guest room to help choose and prepare the photos to be used for the ceremony later.

    When afternoon hits, all of the relatives and guests bleed out into the yard to begin the funeral. It’s a relaxed affair, with snacks, mingling, and the laughter of roughhousing cousins swirling with the murmuring sunlight. People stand to share memories of the dog, and drinks are taken to acknowledge particularly funny anecdotes. Kyoutani doesn’t talk much, but outside of an argument or bickering or a purposeful conversation, he never talks much, so Yahaba believes whatever was bothering him before has worn off. It isn’t until the comments end and pictures of the dog are passed around that he begins to fidget. Another thing Yahaba has learned is that, much like a dog, Kyoutani never explodes without tipping you off first. But in reminiscing with the rest of the group, Yahaba missed many of the earlier signs—which he does not realize until, when his father announces jovially that he will grab the urn for burying; Kyoutani leaps roughly to his feet and takes off for the house, under pretense of heading to the bathroom. Worried, Yahaba rushes after him but finds that Kyoutani is too riled up, the way he gets sometimes after a rough day at work, or in the past, before they could calm down enough to listen to each other. He is pacing, waves of anger and frustration and something more vulnerable peeling off of him like weak bark from a tree after a storm. 

     It’s worse than Yahaba imagined, and the moments of discomfort since their trip began start clouding up Yahaba’s mind. “What’s wrong, Kyoutani?” he asks, feeling his recent negligence throbbing at the sides of his throat. But Kyoutani continues to pace, silently. Since their first meeting, Yahaba has uncovered ways to communicate with Kyoutani. He can navigate a fight, he can weave truths into banter like a TV lawyer, and he can withstand raging criticisms.

     He can’t work with silence.

     But silence is what he gets, and in distress his composure cracks. “What is it? Tell me,” he continues, pleading now. When he gets nothing but fuzzy accusations of socks on carpet, it makes it hard to think straight, he kind of wants to fight. “Stop shutting me out Kyoutani,” he reopens darkly, “what’s wrong huh? Tell me what’s wrong for _once_ , TELL ME!”He yells, suddenly remembering that he dragged him here in the first place, and that he should be supportive when Kyoutani is obviously struggling, not trying to bait him into an argument, the way he always does. The realization tires him and he simply watches the other with pursed lips, an angry prickling at his eyes and an unwelcome heat around his nose. Faint singing from outside reaches his ears now that he’s stopped talking.

     Kyoutani finally opens his mouth, choking out, “I had a dog. When I was young, when things were bad, and it,” he takes a shuddering breath, “to be left alone...” he starts over, glowering at the carpet, “to be _leaving_ and be _celebrated_ —” he stops. Brings his hands up to his face but doesn’t touch it, doesn’t speak anymore. Looks pained, grimacing rather than scowling the way his features usually, naturally do.

     Yahaba doesn’t speak immediately, but in seeing that face the fight has left him. Calmer now, he approaches, murmuring, “hey, hey” and sinks on his heels a little to find Kyoutani’s eyes. Once again he notices the dark circles, remembers once bringing up his odd choice in career despite the “quiet, almost sad” way he looks at kids playing with animals sometimes (he was not very delicate about it, he is embarrassed to remember), and how determined Kyoutani had looked then, stubborn and intense and with no proffered explanation of why, like when he decided Iwaizumi was worthy of respect because of an arm-wrestling win. The memory melts the cold disquiet in his heart from a moment ago, and he brings his hands to cup Kyoutani’s face where his own had fallen short—going slowly, so as not to startle him. Kyoutani eyes him, full-on and unwavering the way he did that match against Karasuno when they let their feelings (at that time, rage) confront each other for the first time. A smile unfurls over Yahaba’s face like a comforting blanket when the ghost of a remembered thought, _some things don’t work right when said between us_ floats into his mind.

    “Dance with me,” he whispers. Kyoutani is struck with surprise, and then his face begins to close down, his shoulders tightening up, he’s getting angry. But Yahaba stops him, repeating “come on, dance with me,” less sweetly now, more of challenge. “Don’t be a chicken.” 

    Immediately, Kyoutani retorts, “I’m not a fucking chicken,” but it works, as he’s already opening his posture, sliding his hands down Yahaba’s lowering arms until he hooks his index fingers around Yahaba’s pinkies. And they get close, close enough for Yahaba to brush his face against Kyoutani’s own, and with their hands connected loosely they kind of sway in a slow circle, easing in and out of silence aside from the broken tune still filtering in from outside.

     “If you weren’t chicken you’d hold me properly,” Yahaba complains through a grin.

     “Shut up you creep,” Kyoutani orders before they fall into an easy silence once more. “…Don’t you want to see him get buried?”

     “I won’t abandon you.” He says without hesitation. When he hears a quiet “gross” in response, Yahaba chuckles, before softly touching a kiss to Kyoutani’s lips and muttering, “I’m sorry I yelled.” But he doesn’t mean the yelling, because they’re often yelling. He means the forcing Kyoutani to open up, because in all of their bickering, entering each other’s spaces and lives, thoughts and hearts like a weed too beautiful and too resilient to destroy, they have never forced each other to open up, ever. It’s unfair to expect Kyoutani to understand all of that, but even Yahaba has things that are hard for him to say.

     But perhaps the message came through his lips or his pinkies, or the smile he can’t get to disappear every time their cheeks touch, because Kyoutani answers, soft and gruff and compromising, “you’re so gross…I’ll tell you one day.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was a good meandering! But I was worried about if I portrayed Kyoutani well, in particular. What do you guys think? Also, I never write arguments, so did it even sound realistic/ Basically the uncertainty all writers have when looking at parts of their work. Anyway comments/kudos are always appreciated (and you can come yell at me about this pair on tumblr wheneverrr)


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